Siberian Red by Sam Eastland

confidence. But he would have to move carefully. If the Comitati learned of his true purpose, or even if they became suspicious, he would never leave Borodok alive.
    While he waited for the right moment to break cover, Pekkala studied them from a distance.
    Lavrenov was a tall, thin man with feverishly glowing eyes and cheeks hollowed out by years of gulag life. ‘That one deals in everything,’ Melekov told Pekkala. ‘From tobacco, to razor blades, to matchsticks, Lavrenov can get his hands on whatever you want, as long as you can pay for it. And, somehow, he can still keep out of trouble.’
    Sedov, the Old Believer, could not. He was small, wiry and muscular, with the scars and crumpled cheekbones of a man who had been beaten many times. Most prisoners kept their hair short, as a precaution against lice, but Sedov’s was long and pleated with dirt, as was his unkempt beard. A broken, slightly upturned nose and twisted lips had given him a permanent expression of bemusement, as if recalling some private joke. This, in combination with a stubborn, almost suicidal refusal to conceal his religious faith made him a perfect target for Gramotin. Daily, the sergeant sent the old man skittering across the ice-patched compound, while he taunted the convict, chanting scraps of outlawed prayers.
    But the man Pekkala watched most closely was Lieutenant Tarnowski. Now the highest ranking member of the Comitati, Tarnowski enforced its violent reputation. At those rare times when words alone proved unsuccessful, Tarnowski carried out his threats with a relish that seemed to rival even that of the guards.
    On Pekkala’s fifth day at the camp, after the rations had been distributed, he sat down as usual with Melekov at the little table in the corner to eat breakfast.
    On the floor beside Melekov’s chair was a battered metal tool box, which he used to carry out repairs around the camp. Whenever anything mechanical broke down – phones, alarms, clocks – the guards would send for Melekov.
    ‘What is it this time?’ Pekkala nodded towards the tool box.
    ‘Guard tower phones are down again.’ As Melekov spoke, he removed a hardboiled egg from the jumble of pickled beets, cheese, bread and scraps of cold meat which filled his bowl. Gently, he rolled the egg between his palms, until the shell was mosaicked with cracks. ‘The batteries that power the ringers keep freezing. I hate going up and down those ladders. They shouldn’t make me do it. I’m a wounded veteran, you know.’ He pointed to his thigh, where an X-shaped scar was visible just below the tattered edge of his shorts. ‘I’ll tell you how I got it.’ Melekov breathed in deeply‚ ready to begin his story.
    In that moment, Pekkala saw his chance. ‘Instead of telling me how you received that wound, how about I tell you?’
    ‘You tell me ?’ Melekov’s breath trailed out.
    Pekkala nodded. ‘I’ll tell you what it is and where you got it and what you used to do before you came to Borodok.’
    ‘What are you,’ grunted Melekov, ‘some kind of fortune teller?’
    ‘Let’s find out,’ replied Pekkala, ‘and if I’m right, you can give me that egg you were about to eat.’
    Eyeing Pekkala suspiciously, Melekov laid the egg down on the table.
    As Pekkala reached out to take it, Melekov’s hand slapped down on top of his.
    ‘Not yet! First, you can tell me my fortune.’
    ‘Very well,’ said Pekkala.
    Cautiously, Melekov removed his hand.
    ‘That scar was made by a bayonet,’ began Pekkala.
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘To be specific, it was the cruciform bayonet of a Mosin-Nagant rifle, the standard issue for a Russian soldier.’
    ‘Who told you?’ demanded Melekov.
    ‘Nobody.’
    The two men stared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to flinch.
    Slowly, Melekov folded his arms across his chest. ‘All right, convict, but where was I when I received the wound?’
    ‘The branches of the X are longer at the lower edges of the scar,’ Pekkala